


Trenches

by ElGato



Series: The Great War [1]
Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: 1910s, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, One Shot Collection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElGato/pseuds/ElGato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of one shots exploring the bond and friendship between Diana, Etta Candy, and Steve Trevor through the context of an all out World War and how each one feels about one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diana Prince: The Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> This work is technically AU since this is set in the Wonder Woman film yet to be released at the time of this publishing. All of these relationships and how they interact with each other may not be canon in the guise of the film, but I'm using what little I know about the film to have a bit of fun before the film comes out.

A nurse’s work is never done.

That’s what the head matron at the hospital always says.

Doubling as a nurse and fighter has proven to be exhausting even for immortals. It’s not so much the physical labor that drains me, it's everything that I witness. Everything that I hear. I hear and see grown men weeping and crying for their mothers on a daily basis. It makes me miss my home.

No, I always miss my home. My family. My sisters. I find myself wondering what they are doing at any given moment. I wonder what my mother is thinking. I pray that she is well and doesn’t worry too much.

I dress into my nightgown and crawl into bed, thankful that Etta’s flat was quiet, the soft flickering of the bedside candle the only sound in my room. I crawl under the warm sheets and roll over to a comfortable position.

Then I felt guilt wash over me as I nestled further into the sheets. Those men in the hospital, the nurses on night shift, they slept on cots and sheets on stone floors. Men and women fighting death every day.

My mind wanders to the soldiers, buried underneath mud and rain, chilled to the bone, hoping to get at least a moment’s shut eye while the haunt of an attack or being sniped looms over them. But here I was, safe and sound. I didn’t have to worry as much about mortal bullets anyway.

Etta Candy was a true saint. A loving sister to offer her home to a traveling Amazonian Princess far from her island. Here I had warm food, a good bed and a sensible wardrobe. The Gods blessed me with meeting the right people. First person I’ve met from Man’s World, Steve Trevor--a man himself--has proven to be a most helpful guide. He patiently answered all my questions, got me through London after a particularly grueling and dangerous journey through the European continent, gaining new friends and foes, and led me directly to Etta in the hub of London town.

I thought London was a mix of contradictions. One moment I’m walking down a street, seeing pleasant gentlemen with beautiful ladies at their arms, men tipping their hats at me in respect the women gushing and giving me pleasant greetings. The next street would have men with harsh accents, smudged with oil and mud, some issuing rude comments, others mimicking their cleaner counterparts by placing their hats at their chests, calling me “Mum.”

I see and hear women and men speak with each other daily. Walking side by side, each gender engaging each other within their societal boundaries. In some ways it moves me. I had long imagined that men and women lived secluded from one another, especially in public settings or the women were kept silent. And yet here, I can hear polite arguing and discussion amongst each other.

Still though, as I’m sure my good friend Etta would say, it is only a facade. Women’s words are not valued here.

I shift on my side in bed, determined to let only positive things flood my mind. Like Etta’s company, the fun we have together. The head matron, a caring woman but will not let any matter of authority bully her into making harsh decisions when it comes to her patients. My fellow nurses who wallow in the same dreary and horrid situation as I, watching all matters of horrors march their way into the cots.

I shake my head, thinking of the fine soldiers who guided me here. Such charm in the wake of danger is something I know my own sisters would appreciate. Hera knows Artemis can throw a clever line of banter here and there in the heat of battle.

Outside of their smiles, I can see their weariness. Their eyes dulled from the death they see everyday. Their laughter a mask to their pain. And yet they walk when so many have endured much more physical torment.

I close my eyes to the cries that haunt me. The cries I want to stop. And it takes me a while of drifting along the kingdom of Morpheus until I realize that the cries are real.

It’s a loud, wrathful howl and I bolt up in bed with a gasp. I run out of bed, hurrying to the source of the sound, gathering my white nightgown above my ankles as I rush towards Steve’s bedroom.

“What in the name of King George is going on!” I hear Etta Candy call as she opens the door to her own bedroom carrying a candle.

I open the door to Steve’s room find the man on his back, rigid, crying out, like he was caught in a web he couldn’t escape from. Etta and I surrounded him, placing our hands upon him in an effort to wake him from his nightmare.

“Steve...Steve!” I yell over his cries and he jerks into my arms as I prevent him from completely falling off the bed. He scrambled out babbling something about going back and “facing fire”. He was on his knees, sweating, awake. I held him up by the arm.

“Steve! You’re having a bad dream,” I said loudly, in an attempt to rouse him from delirium. 

My own heart pounded, just as confused as he was, but I had dealt with patients who had night terrors before. The head matron told me and my fellow nurses not to panic as that makes it worse.

But I had never known Steve to have night terrors. Etta, Steve and I all were housed under Etta’s flat, we would know if one of us had a fitful sleep. Most of the time that person was me.

Perhaps we were missing something.

Etta placed her candle on the nightstand next to Steve’s own candle and guided him to sit and settle on the floor.

“Just a dream…” he whispered, still dazed. I still stood looking down on him, seeing him shake.

I had never seen him like this before. Not even brought before my mother and rather displeased sisters had I seen him so scared out of his wits. I watched as he drew a few deep breaths before he started blubbering apologies.

Etta too gave an exhausted sigh, but her eyes shone with remorse, “Calm down, Steven. It’s alright. You do not need to apologize to anyone.”

I bent down and helped him up, feeling him tremble, as if some part of him was still in whatever hell he was imagining.

I had seen what war does to people directly. I saw the atrocities that people suffered from first hand. I never thought much of how much war destroyed every part of the human body, including the spirit and mind.

Seeing Steve, here, cracked underneath the pressure of his own self conscious made me fearful of my own mental health. I felt numb seeing his suffering. I knew I should feel pity or concerned, but I felt nothing.

No...I felt something.

Fear.

The same fear that shown in Steve’s eyes. It was a terrible feeling. I had to be strong and feeling this fear made me feel anything but.

No matter how many times I draw a sword to stop the physical atrocity of war, I cannot stop the war from plaguing the mind.

I helped our friend back into his bed with the same care I give to patients at the hospital. I had to be gentle, for mortals here were fragile. Steve had been resilient. Moreso than I have given him credit for, but the quick thumping I felt of his heartbeat told me that his resilience had a limit.

“By Hera, Steve,” I gasped as I placed my hand against his heart, “Your heart’s racing.”

He glanced up at me with dazed blue eyes. He wanted to reply, but all that came out was a shaky uneasy breath.

“It’s alright,” I said, more to myself, than to him. I tucked the covers around him tight, as the head matron had taught me. Wrapping grown men in comforting covers like babes could be considered to demeaning, and many of the men fuss, but it secures them. It makes them feel protected and at ease. When the night terrors come, they have warmth around them to protect them.

I turned to Etta, who was still waiting for me at the doorway. She had a frown, but her eyes shone with concern for our friend.

“You go ahead to bed, Etta,” I say, smoothing out the blanket over Steve. “I’ll stay with him until he falls asleep.”

Etta understood. A frightened man should never be left alone to his dark thoughts. Athena knows I found comfort in the soft voices of gentle discussion between my housemates at night as I tried to get to sleep. She reluctantly retreated to her own room to regain some rest.

I did as I said, watching Steve lay awake, eyes watering with tears he was equally afraid to shed. He stared at the ceiling trying to erase the nightmares from his thoughts. I pulled the chair from the nearby desk and rested it at his side, taking one quick look to make sure he didn’t injure himself. He looked so fragile, so breakable and pliable. In that moment, the pure essence of masculinity was laid bare, and underneath any bravado was just...raw trembling emotion.

I had learned that my sisters’ tales about men and Man’s World are only partially true. There are good men in this world. Many of them in fact. I have spoken with soldiers and they all seem like loving people. Victims of circumstance. I could see it in their eyes. I could hear it in the way they talked about their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and wives. They had caring hearts. Souls made for love, not war.

I had learned a hard fact. Everything so horrendous caused by man is the result of a vicious cycle. Men are expected to do violent and abhorrent things because society tells them to. Society tells them they should be aggressive because men are violent. It will never end.

Not until something breaks the cycle. Or someone.

No. They need to embrace the truth of what is in their hearts.

Regardless of how society changes, there will still be men in the world that have violent and black hearts ruining the goodness of the world. But for the many many others, they need to accept their own feelings, not fight them.

And I don’t think I’ve met someone who needed to embrace their truth more than Steve. He is dressed and told to be a warrior. He succumbs to the coldness against life. He’s pessimistic, weary, and frustrated.

But his face, his beauty...I know the Gods did not create him to be a fighter. They made him to be a lover. I have run across many men who seemed to have been made by the hands of Aphrodite, rather than the hands of Ares.

Steve puts his heart in everything he does, whether he likes it or not, so the shear fact that he barely comes out of successful missions alive tells me he was not fit to have a future as a warrior. I can see many men are that way. Most come from humble homes, farmers, tinkers, mechanics, none having known combat beforehand. They were built to live in peace.

Imagine. These dedicated and hard working men in lives of peace and beauty not war. It’d be a magnificent fantasy.

Instead they take all that dedication to find new ways of making war. Most say it is in an effort to minimize casualties on their side, but in fact does the opposite. In an arms race, instead they come up with the most destructive ways of war possible.

“Do you need a drink of water?” I asked, wondering if it would calm Steve’s nerves.

“Um…” he replied in a shaky voice. “I don’t think I should.”

He glanced down at himself, sniffing, his fear changing into abject shame. “I...Princess, I just... I pissed myself during--”

“New linens?” I looked over to his wardrobe, not wanting to give pause to the situation. He was already scared out of his wits, he did not need to dwell on the embarrassment of wetting himself from terror.

It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to it. I had to clean half-conscious men who had soiled themselves during the night at the hospital. It was a common enough occurrence that I would not mark it as odd. But certainly all men were almost in tears whenever they had to tell their nurses that they had wet the bed, fearful of being regarded as useless children.

Steve wriggled out of the blankets and quickly removed his soiled sleepwear as my back was turned to grab him fresh clothes and sheets. He wrapped the dirty blankets around himself as he got changed, making sure it would shield his body from being exposed.

The smell wasn’t strong thankfully, or at least it was masked by the pungent smell of his sweat. The new sheets helped. And Steve began to slowly calm himself as he assisted in making the bed, the work keeping his mind off whatever was haunting him.

He crawled back in bed, looking a bit relieved that he was in dry sheets. I remained at his side, making sure the blankets were tight and snug. He lay on his back, breathing deeply.

“You should be in bed,” he said weakly almost as if the entire event hadn’t happened, “You’ll be tired in the morning.”

I didn’t respond right away, very aware that Steve was still a ball of nerves. He sighed and I reached over and clutched the hand that was at his side.

“I’m fine, Steve. I’ll always be fine,” I said, though not convinced myself.

He responded with a squeeze. He let out a shaky breath, and closed his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. I felt my own eyes water.

A bond between soldiers. Warriors who had seen the same things. I can only sense the need for men to find comfort among themselves, to cry in each others’ arms over the nightmares and disaster. I wanted to do the same with Steve. To tell him that I wasn’t okay. That I was afraid of what I was seeing. Afraid what it would do to me if I witnessed any more.

“I hope you don’t see me as weak,” he said.

“I don’t.”

“Or as an invalid, like those nobles who think they earned their rank.”

“Never.”

“Then...if you need to cry...or rant, Diana...I will never see you that way. I never did.”

I caught myself. Often I had wondered if I had taken my exasperation over mankind’s cruelty on those who were the least at fault. Like Steve and his companions. It would destroy me if the things I’ve said about his gender, the complaints I had against his society somehow added to the crushing weight of his conscious, stirring up deeply embedded nightmares.

I could only respond, “Don’t be afraid to sleep, Steve. I’m right here.”

The small twitch of his lip told me that he found comfort in that.

“I promise I will repay you for this,” he said. “Combating our nightmares together, feels much better than fighting them alone.”

I agreed, though I didn’t vocally say so. I watched as he closed his eyes, letting them rest.

As I felt his body relax and succumb to a more restful sleep, I felt my own body loosen, comforted that I was not alone.

And that is all I could ask of my friends.


	2. Steve Trevor: The White Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts of Steve Trevor about his friend and patron Etta Candy. By their very nature he comes to realize they don't always agree.

She should have called me a coward the first day I spoke to her. This plump, jovial, happy lady had her features contorted into a scowl as I told her the news.

Her brother Gregory, nicknamed ‘Mint’, was killed. Shot through the neck. I assured her that it was quick and painless. He didn’t suffer. At least not much.

I could see my words float into her head, her wide blue eyes glazed over and she refused to speak. That was the most quiet I have ever seen her since.

Etta is someone I learned quite quickly that is a force to be around. A pleasant force, an inspirational force. She’s tougher than nails, and even impresses Diana on occasion. When you make the mighty Amazon princess stand in shock, you are something else, truly.  
Several of her male confidants joke that Etta could possibly win the war if she and the Princess work together. But she always says the same thing:

“I have a bigger battle to fight.”

She is an outward and vocal proponent for women’s rights and the movements involved. She exclaims that if women were allowed to help make decisions, this drastic and dastardly war would be less likely to happen. The death of her brother--a member of my own squad--only forced her to double down.

And this, strangely, has put me at odds with her.

Her White Feather Movement is an atrocity.

I understand where she is coming from. Etta’s brother had to die fighting for his country, the rest of the healthy males should follow suit. But she doesn’t know what she is asking of them. And to place them in shame, passive-aggressively calling these men cowards makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Cowardice is a hot button word now. No one knows who is and isn’t a coward anymore. Those lines are blurred. Broken men are intermixed with men who just don’t care. Men who have lost their minds are labeled as cowards. Men who had seen, heard, and experienced true hell are labeled as invalids or scum. A giant label of shame hanging over them.

And men could be shot for so-called “cowardice.”

These women, this movement Etta wants to do is doing more harm than good. I understand times are changing, and the core belief of women’s rights isn’t something to scoff at. But publicly shaming complete strangers...just doesn’t seem right.

I hate that I’m so against her. I want to be behind Etta all the way after all that she has given me. But I cannot bring myself to do it. She offered me a place to stay in between missions, made sure I had my wits about myself, reminded me to wash my clothes and myself whenever I lack the thought of self care. I’ve been getting better at returning to mundane habits because of her influence.

She comes in, her boots clicking proudly on the wood floor of her London flat. She had a very sure nature of herself. She could tell you the sky is green and you’d be convinced to believe her.

I look up from my paper, looking for any news about the warfront. Most of it is sugar coated, I can tell. Words like “proud men” and “inevitable casualties” are thrown about. It always ended with “We must continue to support our noble and honorable men in combat. God save the King.”

Etta gathers her clutch purse, and rummages around in it to make sure she has everything.  
“There’s tea on the coffee table,” I say in a soft voice.

“Ah, delightful!” her voice is loud and forceful compared to mine, as she takes a couple of scones and a tea cup. She takes a sip of the tea I had prepared and smacks her red lips.

“Mmm, you make excellent tea for a Yankee, Steven,” she teases with a wink as she sits down with a saucer. She looks at me with a bit of worry as she notices I’m still reading the reports from the front. “I do not know what you’re looking for, Steve. But you will not find it there.”

I blink lazily up at her. “I have to find all the information I can get. Even from tabloids and third-hand accounts.”

“Most men find things outside of war to occupy their minds,” she said looking at me pointedly as if she were scolding me. “You should take up cooking, or gardening. Surround yourself with lovely things. Instead of bad news and worse news.”

She was right. I fold the newspaper with a sigh. “Very well. Maybe I should accompany you to your gathering.”

She glanced at me with pursed lips, before giving out a ringing laughter, “Oh, heavens no. My gals will scare you. A Yankee who’s own enlightened country hasn’t even thought about the rights of women. No, no, Steve. I rather them put their efforts towards the Earl of Richmond and eat him alive.”

Etta finished her tea and stood, grabbing her hat from the hat rack and called with a jovial, “Well I’m off! Find something to do Steven. A crossword puzzle, write, draw...get a hobby. I don’t like coming home finding you still utterly depressed and caught up in your thoughts.”

I stood, wetting my lips. I felt like I was approaching my mother to ask for an extra piece of candy, when I already knew the answer. As she slipped on her leather gloves, I gently touched her wrist.

“Etta, maybe you should move your girls to another venue. Like London Square or near the cathedral. Going to the offices and barracks isn’t the best place to promote your ideas.”

The look she gave me was worse than any look any Amazon had given me. She looked like I betrayed her.

“I know you have this need to be against everything I say,” she said, a bit more defensive than I expected. “But this is bigger than you and me.”

I nodded, “I know. I don’t go against what you promote, but the way you go about it.”

“Oh?” I could see the fury flash in her eyes, but she clearly kept it at bay. “And in what way specifically, do I go about it that is so offensive to you?”

I squeeze my eyes tight, thinking of those dreadful feathers poking through the pockets of men with ashen and downtrodden faces. I also can’t help but think of Etta’s last gathering in Leeds, women with proud, rigid faces, holding picture frames that showed their men, their sons, their brothers. All buried.

“You’re asking people to walk to their deaths,” I say, lips barely moving over my words.

One of her bright eyes twitched at the pronouncement.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Etta. Men digging trenches that might as well be digging their graves. When they do come back, they aren’t the same. Forgive me for being harsh Etta, but if Mint came back, there’s a good chance that you would not recognize him. Calling people who are just asking to survive and help their families ‘cowards’...”

My spine shuddered and I bit my lip, voice becoming weak again.

“...is just awful.”

As short as the woman was, she wasn’t afraid to look me right in the eye and I know my demise was imminent. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

She was quiet. She hadn’t been this quiet since I told her about her brother. I could tell she was thinking of the appropriate response that didn’t involve outright throwing me out on the street. She was taking in my clothes, well-washed, but hung loosely on my frame. The tailor would have to take them in...again. Perhaps it was the sorry state of my clothes that prevented her from kicking me out in a hurry.

Finally she spoke, her voice low, shaking, “Mint may not have been the same but he would at least be here. He would at least be safe.”

Her eyes flitted down once again to my clothes, “It’s because of Mint’s sacrifice that many should follow example. I do not wish to take away anyone’s husbands, but we are all in this together. If the men do not defend the country, it’s up to the women, and until our society sees our value, not just as wives and mothers, but as intelligent people who have a voice, there isn’t much one such as me can do. Beyond creating a disturbance within my own country.”

She let out a breath, surprised at her own long winded speech.

I realized then, that Etta felt utterly...helpless. Helpless in that she wanted to help, but restrictions forbade her from doing so. She could be a nurse, but that’s not what Etta wanted. She wanted to end the war. And society, as it was, would not allow her, or the thousands of other women from putting their efforts forward.

I gave up. She was headstrong and nothing I could say would sway her mind.

“I wont say I understand,” I broke the silence. “But I sure as hell can’t stop you.”

“You sure as hell can’t,” she said with a sly smile. “Get your hat and coat. I’ve decided you’re coming with me. We need to get you out and about and away from those warfront reports. It’ll be good for you in that regard at least.”

It only took me a moment to decide that I should follow her. We walked down to the barracks where the training camp was located. As I walked by I felt a knot in my chest, watching young men, not even 20 years of age, fumble and struggle with holding a rifle or mounting a bayonet.

Past the barracks was a wooden platform set specifically for the Earl of Richmond. He was there, already giving his speech and grievances with a small crowd in front of him.

I stood by Etta, watching as more and more women gathered listening to outcries of the Earl, their faces showing a severe displeasure. I kept my eyes open, hoping that a fight wouldn’t break out.

Just then, a woman came up to us. She looked angry. She was looking right at me. I wondered if I had done something wrong to offend her.

“You look quite fit and secure, sir,” she said aloud, as if trying to turn the surrounding peoples’ attention to me. “Young and healthy enough. What are you doing all cozy in London?”

It was then I saw it. In her right gloved hand. A white frayed feather. I backed away, an unknown pain in my chest forming as I could hear the woman’s furious implications.

Before I could sputter my defense, Etta stood in front of me, “He’s done his time several times over, Angela.”

She spoke pleasantly. She probably knew this woman.

“Steven is not a coward. Far from it. He is an American, far away from home, and has bled for us, even when some of our own men refuse to fight. That feather will never be for him.”

The woman’s eyes widened and I could see the barest hints of a smile on her face, “If you say so Etta. My apologies sir. Thank you for your service.”

The woman turned to get closer to the Earl and I let out an exhaustive sigh. I removed my hat to wipe the perspiration from nerves off my forehead.

“See that,” Etta laughed. “I’ll always be here to save your life from anxiety, Steve.”

“Thank you, Etta,” I say, my hand clutching at my oddly pounding heart. A wash of relief came over me. Not from me escaping that ordeal, but from the fact that I knew Etta did not see me as a coward. Months of staying with her, just that knowledge lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I was not a coward.

“Yes, but you owe me,” she flicked her clutch back onto her wrist and marched towards the Earl, who was quickly losing the ever growing crowd of women. “How about you make me tea for a week and we’ll call it even.”


	3. Etta Candy: Glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Etta Candy gets Diana ready for a ball, she can't help but notice the effect her friend has on a lonely room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I initially drafted all of this, the Wonder Woman movie trailer was not yet released. I am sticking to the characterizations and roles I originally thought out (Etta is a patron---not a secretary) but I still was inspired by the ball scene from the trailer when writing this particular chapter. Enjoy

I never realized how much my bedrooms can glow. My own bedroom gleamed soft white when the London morning hits the window that overlooks my Chelsea street. Steve’s I’ve come to realize was dark, the light from his window doing nothing the keep the shadows from swallowing the room. At night, when he had the fire lit, it gleamed a black and red. Such severe colors for a rather unassuming young man, but no doubt had storms whirling in his subconscious.

Then there was the far bedroom, what used to be my late brother’s room. There was one window that overlooked the community garden the other flats shared. Here, where the Amazon Princess herself slept, the shadows were softer, not able to touch the bed she slept in.

And then at night, when her bedroom candle was lit, it bathed the room in a warm glow.

I was helping Diana get dressed for the gala General Darnell invited her to. She gleefully wore the blue dress that I purchased for her at the market and had it tailored to fit her perfect frame. It billowed in all the right places, not accenting her curves, but all the while made her look as if she were floating on water. Her hair down she looked like a goddess. And as I pinned her hair up…

“You perhaps look too much like a Princess, Diana,” I joked.

“Etta,” she said softly and I could see concern in her eyes. “What if he’s there?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

I feigned ignorance. “Steve will be there yes. By gods he better be there or he will have hell to pay.”

“No, no,” she said looking down at her hands, which were fumbling in her lap. I haven’t recalled ever seeing Diana this nervous. “The God of War himself.”

I swallowed. I never quite bought into this “stop this Greek god; stop the war” nonsense. But I never had the heart to tell her that wars and atrocities are only the responsibility of man. If she were to find this “God of War”, hooo booy that would be a treat to watch that fight.

But deep within myself I doubted it. Why should a god break a sweat over something humans are capable of doing themselves?

I had to endure family loss. And the thought of my brother dying because it was all in this colossal Olympian plan just made my teeth grind. It was one thing for my brother to be killed by his fellow man, quite another if he was killed because of the whims of a larger power. It made his life so cheap. It makes all our lives cheap.

Still, that didn’t keep me from loving the fact that someone out there---in this case Diana---was so adamant of saving us from ourselves that she was willing to plunge herself into a quarrel with a god.

“Ares was never known in tales to be that cunning,” I said whimsically. “Usually Athena was the one who brought wisdom in war.”

“Wisdom,” she said defiantly, “is different than devious cunning. Something that I assure you Ares possesses. The gods by nature can take many forms. I have no doubt in a conflict such as this, he has supplanted himself into the heart of it all, be it the form of a woman, man, or child.”

I placed the last pin into Diana’s black hair and stood back admiring my handiwork. “Not bad. If I do say so myself.”

I watched her eyes finally focus on her image in the mirror. Her pensive face finally broke into a smile, “Ah, gorgeous work Etta. You know how to bring out a woman’s beauty.”

I gave a hollow laugh, despite the compliment. As if Diana needed anything, least of all my help to be beautiful. But, I had to admit, getting the blue dress, finding the right hairstyle, only I could make this goddess look as heavenly as she did. That’s the truth.

There was something though, seeing Diana out of her armor, out of her soldiers garb, and in something as elegant as these fine clothes. Truly, as Steve had told me before I met Diana, “she was nothing like you’ve ever seen.”

“No one will begrudge you, Etta, if you choose to stay behind,” she said, looking at me through the mirror. I heard that before from Steve. I gave the same response.

“Stay? When all the excitement is out there?” I laughed moving over to her bedside and opened the sack of belongings she had with her when she first arrived in London. “No, no, Diana. It’s my world too. I’m going to fight for it to the best of my ability, even if it means weaving thoughts of peace into potentially dangerous minds.”

“I expected you to say that,” Diana laughed. “But, still, the offer is there.”

My response was to pull out her sword from her sack. The sword was heavy as I brought it to her. She took the blade with ease and slipped it behind her back, down the low cut back of her dress. I made sure it was secure and smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress as she stood, towering over me.

“I suppose I pass inspection,” she said to me and I gave a nod.

The flames from the fireplace bounced off her skin, giving it a golden glow that contrasted with the stark blue of the dress. The blue, an excellent choice in color as it made her skin ethereal and her dark hair blacker than midnight. I thought of the soldiers at this gala. No doubt their heads would turn off their heads. I could practically see Steve’s pipe drop from his lips as his mouth would go slack at the sight of her in this .

She was powerful and dangerous, but civility graced her form. She made the quest for peace look powerful.

I had surrounded myself with all sorts of women: tired women, sad women, angry women, frustrated women---all demanding change. My preferred method of peace is to bring about civil unrest. No harm done beyond a few egos bruised. But in the end, words were words, and women like myself were not allowed to be in such positions as to demand peace and compromise.

Diana brought all that into action. Impressing men in power and inspiring women to shed the shackles culture placed on them. In a way, I am envious that she had that power and wielded it so effortlessly. Still, she can be naive, and that’s where I come in. To give her advice. To tell her that not everything or everyone is so black and white. That those who wear a uniform do not always love war, and that those who wear civilian clothes do not always bring peace.

“The dress doesn’t make the lady, the lady makes the dress.”

“Wise words, my friend.”

Diana let out a long sigh, “Okay…”

She didn’t move. Her face passive but rigid as she steeled herself. I gestured out the door. “Come, Diana. The coach is waiting.”

Diana exhaled, which I sure was gusty enough to cause the firelight of the fireplace to flicker. 

I smiled at the Princess, “Do not worry, Diana. I’m going to be behind you the whole time.”

She nodded, her lips turning up, “Yes. That is true. And I trust you most of all.”

I couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride swelling in my breast, knowing that she knew I had her back. I grabbed our coats, tossed the navy one to her and donned my maroon one. I also placed my flowered hat at the top of my head, and pulled my clutch purse from the chair sitting by the doorway.

“Off we go,” she whispered as we walked side by side out into the dark hallway of my flat, but the glow that graced Diana’s room followed her into the night.


	4. Etta Candy: Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Etta finds Steve reading. She has worries, specifically about her frustrated friend.

I worry. Some of my closest confidants would gasp in horror to hear that the “Bold Etta Candy” worries about anything, but I do. It’s hard not to worry when two of your friends are out there and fighting, while you struggle to even get permission to see the front lines.

Such is the disgusting world I live in. Women are treated like invalids, their roles in helping the nation limited. But why should I sit by, when my friends and countrymen are out there risking their necks because of some political strife? My brother. My own brother was killed and I am told to just sit at home?

Poppycock.

I had long turned my effort elsewhere, some saying I’m launching a war on the homefront. Well, we all need to work together if we are to endure. If men and women can stand side-by-side in equal eyes under God, then why not in peace and war in this world.

My straightforwardness when it comes to rights of women in this war concern my friends however. Steven Trevor, a young man I have had the pleasure of housing for his tenure of his volunteership over here frequently finds the time to tell me I am too headstrong.

I didn’t speak to him for a week after that. Then he tried to explain to me that he didn’t mean for his words to insinuate that what I was doing was wrong, just that it could cause a backlash. I appreciate his concern. It made me feel that what I was trying to attempt was actually being noticed.

I walk out to the back of my flat where the gardens and clothes lines are. I find Steve reading, a pipe held pensively between his lips. I smile as I remember Diana’s voice chiding him, “Smoke clouds our eyes, and burns our noses. What sane person would want to ingest it into their lungs?”

“It makes them feel important,” I had retorted, unable to resist a good ribbing at Steve’s expense.

I do so love teasing him, though. I can see at first it put Diana off, until she realized it was all in good jest. We may disagree, but Steve is a gentleman through and through and is pleasant company. He tries not to demean me, but him being a stalwart realist and unshaken cynic about everything can make his words seem like personal jabs. But I know where his worldview is. It doesn’t lie on any notion of superiority of one sex over the other, on nation over the other, one cause over the other. He’s fair….for a man. All men will come from a position of authority, having been used to the benefits for centuries, so naturally my push for a more progressive England comes off as an upstart attempt, afraid that their positions in the world would be at jeopardy.

I sit next to him, my tea and saucer in hand. Noting that he was reading some dusty old book on Greek mythology that my father had in his library. I smiled to myself.

“Wanting to impress someone, Steven?”

He turned to me, eyes wide as if he didn’t notice me at first.

“No,” he said as he turned back to the pages. His ears turned a distinct red and I smiled. He reminded me of my late brother so much. I can’t say Mint was as handsome as Steve, but they held the same charm. Quick to speak well, but when flustered incredibly adorable. And nothing flustered ol’ Steve like Diana Prince.

The goddess was incredible, even I had to admit willingly. She’s not as forceful as she needs to be when it comes to current issues, but Lord, she had a presence. Tall, mighty, elegant, with a smile that could melt the iciest of hearts.

I could tell that the self-confidence Steve gave off in his usual manner was a facade and inside he was hard on himself. No one was able to bring it to the surface like Diana and I don’t like seeing him suffer for it. He has suffered just as much as the rest of us if not moreso.

It would make him feel better if he expressed his feelings as easily as I did.

“Come off it,” I laugh. “A blushing lad like you clearly has someone they feel the need to impress. Fine with me. Men and women should never stop trying to impress each other. To become better people.”

He closed his book with a sigh and ashed his pipe. “Are you trying to cheer me up?”

I paused. Was I? Probably. I was very open to him at how exhausting it was to live with someone so introverted. I had an Amazonian Princess in my home who charged out into battlefields as well as galas on a moment’s notice, and that was stressful enough going with her. Having a moody soldier was not something I wished to deal with at home.

“What are you so upset about?”

“Nothing,” he said softly.

“It’s not nothing. You read about those heroes and wonder what it would take for Diana to look at you differently than she does other men. Take it from someone who knows her better, she’s not looking for someone who’s strong, who’s a genius, who’s rich. She may not be even looking for a man.”

There was slight tilt of the head that I couldn’t read. I assumed Steve hadn’t thought of that. Which in note was ridiculous because he’s lived with me all this time and he knows how men are on the last of my mind, despite my nosy neighbors trying to hitch me with their lawyer nephew.

I didn’t have the heart to tell poor Steve that he was not good enough for someone like Diana. That said, it is common that women find good company in men that are indeed not good enough for them. The good ones...the good men, fully realize that, and work to be better.

That’s all we can do. Better ourselves for the common good. But many live with the attitude that we were made in God’s eye as perfect as can be, and therefore no effort should be taken to improve our lives and the lives of others.

It may not be possible to fix or to take a stand for everything, but if someone like me can work to improve the life of at least one person, it would make all the difference.

I have made it my business to better the lives and influence of my gender. Deep down I have no sense in grandeur that the world will become a shining utopia as soon as women are allowed to vote or hold office, but at least the world will have a different point of view, a different voice to be heard. To steer society into a more even playing field that the weaknesses of men can be nullified by the strength of women, and vice versa.

Steve obviously has other concerns. Concerns that more or less impact his life as a whole. Whether he lives or dies. Pilots in general are fast living, hard drinking and full of dark and dreary humor. They are reckless off mission, in large part because they know they will most likely die. The poor lads in the trenches fear for their lives every day, but there is at least a greater chance of survival. Pilots and spies, what Steve is, do not have that luxury.

Even Steve knows that he perhaps should have died long ago, landing on that...mysterious Amazonian island. Despite that, he’s not exactly the reckless type like other pilots. He’s very mature in that regard I admit.

That doesn’t mean I wish he’d have fun every once in awhile.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling how tense he was. “She wants and needs a friend. That’s the least you could be.”

“That’s the least I try to be,” he murmured. “But I do want to try to do more. As much as can. Be better than what I am.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. Ask Steve to move an inch, he’ll run a mile. “Oh and what are you going to do?”

His chest heaved as he sighed. It was obvious that he didn’t know.

“Nevermind, Steve. Your motivation will be enough, you know.”

“No, if it was. This war would be over.”

He didn’t start the war. He likely wasn’t going to end it. But he took the whole conflict very personally. Him, an American, a nation that has very little investment in this conflict beyond the usual allied obligations, taking this personally. I honestly do not know what to say.

Regarding fellow man as being your responsibility is something I think that is slowly being lost. Cities are growing bigger, farms smaller, communities distant. Perhaps I’m not giving mankind the praise it deserves. After all, our boys are fighting every day. Maybe not for the sake of humanity, but for their country, for their people, for their families. But what did Diana have to fight for? And Steve? They have made mankind their business.

“Lord, you are so uptight. So tightly wound. How do you ever find the capacity to read a book?”

“Etta…”

“I swear had I not taught you how to relax…”

“I try, Etta. But all I can think of is the inevitable, and how nothing I or anyone else ever does will be enough.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, holding back tears I presumed. I swallowed the lump in my throat. I was not prepared to watch Steve cry.

“There are days I just want it to be over. Anyway anyhow I do not care. Be it Allies or the Central Powers that come out on top I do not care. There are days I want to go home. There are days I just want to fly up in the sky and not come back…”

He didn’t cry, but his jaw was clenched incredibly tight. I instinctively rubbed his back. A gentle calming gesture that I wish I could get back every once in a while especially in these turbulent times.

“I’m sorry, Etta,” he whispered.

I was tired of feeling sorry for him. I was tired with everything going around. There are times I feel petty with my organized demonstrations. As if I'm missing the bigger picture. It's hard to be so for something when there's an even bigger problem out there. I see it in the scowls some of the people give us so it's hard to give appreciation back. Yet its the least I could do for Steve. As long as he, Diana, and many others were out there doing good in the world, the least I could do was to offer them support when they needed it most.

“There’s two stories I want you to read if you haven’t already. One, is the story of Prometheus. And the other, one I think you will relate to a little bit more, is the story of Orion.”

“Why should I read these?”

“Sometimes the biggest heroes do not come out clean. Sometimes heroism and saving humanity requires the ultimate price even when protected by gods. It's never more true when they push themselves to far.”

At his blank expression, I could only say, “Be safe, Steve. Just be safe.”

He smiled. The very few times I've seen, though I reckon he's been smiling a lot more lately. “I’ll do my best Etta.”


	5. Diana: Garments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diana is acclimated into society with the guidance of her friend.

My experience with women has been limited. It took me traveling to Man’s World to realize that. My own homeland consists of women in various shades and features, but all seem to have developed similar physiques. Tall, strong, imposing. Impressive to the average mortal.

But in London, I find women that leave me flabbergasted. For what the majority lack in physical strength and combat skills, I see a hardened toughness and patience that my sisters would envy. Though this society sees women as meek, they are anything but. The majority of them are stark contradictions on what they “should” be. Even men seem to know this. I hear jokes about how their wives would “kill them” if they did this or that. Or how their significant others run the house like a tight ship. It wasn’t everywhere, and there are some men who belittle the “fairer” sex, but in my experience, the knowledge that women are very capable in many things is this world’s worst kept secret.

My friend Etta Candy is the living embodiment of women in man’s world, going against the crowd, but still carrying an air of grace and poise that is expected of women. I watch her closely, hoping to gain some tips and tricks in navigating this world as a female. I have had reasonable success in observing Steve Trevor’s behavior in this world, but it stops short when it comes to my gender. He informs me of what women are expected to do, though he doesn’t quite seem to want to force me to adhere to those rules. Still, this is where I turn to Etta, as she has found the right balance.

It quickly becomes overwhelming, but Etta makes me feel like I don’t have to adjust too much. Every time she tells me what women are expected to do she always ends the statement with “But you don’t have to do that.”

As such I pray that I don’t get too confused. I may disagree greatly with this society’s methods but I do not wish to offend or disrupt their everyday lives. At least with menial things.

Etta takes me through her London town and I wrap myself in my cloak, noticing people staring in my direction.

“Steve asked me to teach you  _ my  _ London. One less riddled with ruffled generals in mustaches, talks of guns, cannons and other methods of madness,” she spoke, her voice high and lilting like her hurried footsteps.

“I follow your lead,” I reply, knowing that I have no choice but to be at her mercy. Steve spoke of her like she was one of importance, neither showing affection or displeasure towards this woman. I could only describe it as respect. I suppose with someone so stunted in his emotions one could also equate respect with affection.

Etta was very sure of herself as she wove me down the slimy streets and smoky buildings. She must’ve taken this confusing, maze-like walk a million times. We passed by little discrete stores, and I could smell things I would never even dream of. Both of pleasant and unpleasant things.

Just right when I was about to get overwhelmed with the scents, she stops in front of a store with one large glass window. Behind it, I could see a disembodied garment, suspended on some base. It was both unsettling, but fascinating.

“Come inside, Diana,” she ushered me inside.

I could only describe it as a textiles or tannery station, except only showing the final product in cool gallant fashion. Like on Themyscira, women patrons would turn their heads to assess the color, feel the fabric, and regard the value of such clothing. Here, however, I was mildly surprised to this place allowing women to try such garments on, comparing them with each other. On Themyscira, many an Amazon held a particular style akin to their tastes and profession and as such the clothiers would simply make them the same thing upon an order being placed.

That may have been because our clothing was simply made, compared to these such garments. I could understand London is much cooler than my island paradise, but even considering that, they looked far too confining. I turned to my friend, mesmerized at how natural she made such garments look.

“Well,” Etta said rubbing her hands together. “Let us get you something more...um...culturally sensitive, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” I say, eyes raking over the forms of the other women here, taking note of their fashion.

Etta starts by holding up limp gowns next to me, clucking her tongue with each one that didn’t seem to satisfy whatever she was looking for, “First, my dear, we must find one your size. My lord, we may have to find one to tailor for you.”

She found one close enough to my size and ushered me to the changing rooms where she helped me get dressed in this strange new fashion. It was as I expected. As the dress fell over my frame and Etta helped even it out, I realized that it was already too confining, regardless of the flowing dress underneath my waist.

It was a fluffy, purple gown, made of smooth shiny fabric. It appeared to be very exquisite, the higher end of what was sold in the shop. The long sleeves that ended just above my wrists cut tight into my arms. The end of the dress rested just above my ankles.

“We’ll have to take it out of course, but what do you think?”

I did not want to criticize Etta’s taste. It seemed suitable for the ladies in the shop, but I felt like I was in a different skin. Uncomfortable and wary. These dresses would make it hard to move and fight, but I suppose I do not need to fight in this if I am to wear this in moments of peace.

Before I could open my mouth an older woman wearing small spectacles and her hair in a strict bun strode over and politely commented, “A wide dress doesn’t suit your height dear.”

She said it so casually and politely, I almost forgot that I have never seen this woman before, and she had never seen anything like me.

“You think?” Etta turned to the older woman. It was becoming clearer and clearer she was the proprietor of this clothing shop. The spectacled woman nodded. “It’s a fine dress, but there are better for her. Though I confess I don’t think I have much in stock that will fit her...physique.”

“You’re a fantastic seamstress, Dolores. I have confidence you will make something perfect.”

Dolores did not seem to be at all affected by the compliment, instead, she removed a long yellow flat measuring tape from around her shoulders. I did my best to understand what Etta and Dolores were discussing.

“...low cut for evening gowns to accentuate her height”

“...oh yes, dear, perfect. What do you think of blue, Dolores?”

“...’twould bring out her skin…”

“...elegant…”

“...certainly…”

“What of casual clothes?” Etta thought aloud. “If you are going to be rubbing elbows with military men, as what a secretary does, you’ll need something a bit more reserved...unfortunately.”

“Reserved?” I asked, unsure of how much more reserved clothing could get in this world. I was vaguely aware of Dolores at my feet, measuring the length of my legs, thighs, waist, and shoulders.

“You don’t want to ruin your finer garments, dear,” Dolores advised. “I suppose you are not from London.”

“I am not.”

“No worries,” Dolores said proudly, “We’ll find everything you need, for every occasion.”

“I think something to draw less attention to her for the every-day,” Etta suggested. “Not that I like that we must cover your entire body let alone your face, and I am tempted to let you go to the barracks in your...um...traditional regalia just to see the expression on their faces.”

I liked that idea but didn’t voice it. In the back of my mind, I knew, for the time being, I shouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. Etta and Steve have done so much to get me acclimated here, I can’t risk to put them in trouble. That said, I was resolved that I wouldn’t hesitate to discard the suppressive garments at the first sign of trouble.

Dolores brought out a pile of black garments in her arms and set them down on the fitting stand. “Less flattering in my opinion, but perhaps more suitable for what you will be doing.”

“Ugh,” Etta groaned. “Nurse clothes. Not exactly feminine for my tastes.”

Dolores and Etta helped me put on the nurse’s uniform. In many ways, Etta was right. The colors were dull, the fabric thick and itchy. The blouse underneath was buttoned all the way to my throat. Even though it all ended in a long skirt, it felt distinctly masculine. However, I was less afraid to move around in it, and the simple design left me no concerns of it getting caught or being a distraction. The belt tied around my waist was wide, and perhaps useful in carrying my golden lasso.

Etta, standing on a step stool, placed something on my head. A hat, black and wide-brimmed, made of cloth. Similar cloth as my new uniform and probably provided zero defense to being struck to the head.

Etta hummed to herself thinking aloud, “You need something distinguished.”

She reached into her purse and took out a bigger, rounder thicker version of Dolores’ spectacles.

“These were my late brother’s,” Etta said softly as she held the frames up to my eyes. Immediately, on reflex, I recoiled. This seemed to be ridiculous. Not to mention not much use. I didn’t feel comfortable having something that could possibly impair my vision, these new clothes were strange enough for me to get used to.

The shorter woman laughed, “Don’t worry, I replaced the lenses so you with the perfect vision can see clearly.”

She rested the spectacles on my nose and ears, the frames falling over my eyes. I let out a breath, relieved that these glasses didn’t impair my vision. Etta beamed, twirling her finger around, motioning for me to turn and look at my reflection in the small mirror on the stand next to the changing platform.

I nearly had to step back off the platform. I didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. Who knew a hat and a pair of glasses could obscure so much of my identity. It wasn’t a look I thought covered who I was. In fact, I thought the exact opposite. I found my eyes behind the glasses, the plain clothing, and no emblems of status highlighted what I took most pride in myself. It shed away all things superficial and grounded me to my bare core. Soft and observant in this society, and dressed in a nurse’s uniform, my role was less of an aggressor, and more of a healer. A bringer of peace in an entirely different way.

“You like this, Diana?”

I spun around to see Etta and drinking in her clothing in a new perspective. Her dresses were brightly patterned, her floral hat bringing out her red hair. Nothing about her clothing was subtle, much like her personality. So this...this is what clothing in Man’s society meant. An extension of one’s personality. Their inner self. It would explain why Steve wore such conservative clothes, as a way to protect himself from the violence he saw in combat, and what he feared would seep into civil society. And Etta...it announced her very nature to the world. Loud and unapologetic.

“I do like this Etta. I really do.”

Slowly her face beamed, happy that I was so pleased with things that I should be uncomfortable with.

Etta handed Dolores a few notes from her handbag, letting the woman know that they would take the uniform with them. Dolores likewise assured Etta that she would send the completed evening gown to her office once it was finished.

I walked out into the world with my new look, noticing that the stares I once received from the public were no longer. Etta was at my side, asking me every now and again if I was comfortable.

“Etta,” I called as we rounded the corner towards the barracks. I wanted to say thank you in the best way I could, my eyes following her back. “It is very rare that I find myself following others. As a Princess, I am used to people following my lead.”

“Indeed,” she replied casually.

“Here I find myself following you. Etta, if I were honest, I have more confidence in myself under your guidance than I am certain my Amazon sisters did under mine.”

She glanced over her shoulder, an amused look on her face. “You are lucky. One of the few.”

Before I could continue, Etta pointed down the street to a solitary man leaning against a brick building, smoking a pipe aggressively. He wore a gray suit, tie, and a wide gray hat. “And that man, and others like him,” Etta continued. “Are the few lucky ones to follow you.”

As we drew closer and Etta greeted him, I realized that it was Steve, out of his uniform, clean and probably as refreshed as he could be--which wasn’t a lot. He gave me a once over, a bit taken aback at my new clothes.

“Here we are, being our ‘respectable to society’ versions of ourselves,” Etta laughed with her hands on her hips.

In dresses, or armor; in uniforms, or suits, even in Man’s world it wasn’t impossible to express one’s very own nature based on cloth alone. The life and the style, though would need several changes, are things I could certainly deal with here, especially with an unconventional woman at my side.


	6. Steve: Trench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve tries to keep his relationship professional as much as possible in a very compromising situation with a warrior Amazon

I don’t know exactly how or why we got into this situation. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Too late to turn back now. But being crammed underneath trench barracks, hiding from rummaging Hun with an Amazonian princess was the last thing I expected to experience during this war. I could tick all the boxes. I’ve been shot, blown up, crash landed, held captive, and hospitalized more times than I care to count.

But this, THIS was never on my mind. Not until I met Diana, who managed to single-handedly make this war far less predictable than it already was.

I’m not a religious person, at least not outwardly so. But when you’re in war, you turn to things you’ve never thought you would. That said, praying, signing of the cross, or doing meditations wasn’t something I regularly did. But in my time with her, I must’ve said more Hail Mary’s than ever before in my entire lifetime.

I’m not complaining, for the record. In fact, I feel the exact opposite. Despite the headaches, backaches, burns, scratches and grime, and an increasing amount of gray hairs I find on my head, I find everything about her exhilarating. She’s beautiful, fantastic...a wonder.

It makes being stuffed into a small crawlspace in the barracks like a bunch of sardines all the more bearable. Not that I think of her THAT way. At least...I don’t know. I don’t think she looks at me THAT way either. She just sees me as a guide. A way to make her journey in this cesspool of a “man’s world” more bearable. Oddly, I think I hate this world more than she does.

I’ve been more concerned about her well being than I ought to. I know she can take care of herself, better than I ever could since my foray into warfare had yielded more disastrous results. I’ve been told by superiors and comrades that me bringing her here was the best thing I’ve ever done as a soldier. I can’t argue with it, but...I do feel rather useless in the eyes of my so-called brothers in arms.

I think Diana senses it. She must. As she assures me as I stare off into the distance, succumbing to my own thoughts that inevitably turn to death and destruction, that she would’ve given up long ago if I wasn’t there to help. She’s a loving person. I understand that. The men look to her as a beacon. Many would follow her into oblivion, because of the love she gives them. I would too if I could keep up.

I’ve only been a soldier for four long years, and I feel like I’ve aged at least ten. When I crashed on that island and laying helpless on the brink of death I never once thought of how much left there was for me to accomplish. I was at the end of my short time on earth and I learned to accept it. I still accept it. As her mother had said, I only live because of Diana’s intervention, and by all accounts, I should not be living.

“Your life is no longer yours,” the queen had told me. And I understood it right away.

My life is forfeit. Everything I do from that point on must be for Diana’s benefit. Not my own, not my comrades, not my country or allies. For her. As unhealthy as that thought process may be, I do not disagree with it. And so far I certainly do not regret it.

She doesn’t seem to take it for granted either. At least not a lot. I don’t think she realizes how much my life is connected to her own now. It would not be in her nature. She saved my life because of the goodness of her heart, not for the impending benefit of an unwavering ally.

Even now as we are stuck in this wooden hole, overlooking the hills of dirt into the grey horizon, she is in front of me, back to my front, arms bracing against the sides of the wooden alcove, positioned as such that if a Hun soldier decided to bend down and look she would be the first thing in danger of being shot. I was well protected.

That said, it wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in. My legs and arms were akimbo, trying not to hog too much room. We’ve been staying like this for hours, trying to find the right time to make a run for the other side to our allies.

“We may have to wait until nightfall, or until our allies attack,” she whispered.

“It’ll be easier to sneak out at night and not get caught in the crossfire,” I replied. “But, you are neglecting that our allies don’t have any better sight than their enemies. They see two figures running towards them from No Man’s Land, they’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

She gave a soft hum. A sign that she was considering that option. She turned her head and whispered, “Can you not move back anymore? I’d rather make sure we aren’t spotted.”

I shook my head with a sigh, “I’m sorry, Princess. My back’s against the wall. Literally.”

I could tell she was getting restless and uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame her. I was feeling a bit claustrophobic myself. I had been spending my time occupying my thoughts with how ridiculous this situation was. Diana had to cover a retreat, which inevitably caused us to stay behind. The retreat was successful; our escape was not. Still, Diana managed to hide in this small space inside the construction of the trenches, dragging me with her as the Hun invaded the space.

I could hear the voices of the Hun soldiers as they hunkered down and patrolled. I couldn’t find myself to get into the headspace of trying to translate every conversation I overheard. It would’ve been useful if I had. Maybe pick up some plans. But when you’re a hair's width away from being discovered and likely shot, translating is not the first thing that should come to mind.

Footsteps in the dirt could be heard and we held our breaths. As soon as a pair of boots came within her sight she tried to crawl further back. There wasn’t much room. I tried to readjust myself so there could be.

It wasn’t much, but she seemed to find a safer position.

And we waited. And waited. And waited. Until finally the boots disappeared from sight.

I breathed a sigh of relief, my breath blowing into her rich dark hair. A muscle in her shoulder twitched involuntarily. I couldn’t help be drawn to the movement under the skin. Lord, I really needed to get out of here. I was becoming really really uncomfortable, and I couldn’t specify why now of all times after hours of being stuck here that I was approaching my last straw.

I wasn’t angry with her. Just the situation. And partially myself. Why I was angry with myself I never know. I just was. Like some deep part of me hated myself for what I was experiencing, and what I was seeing.

Again, my mind wandered. I took to staring at a small freckle on Diana’s shoulder blade. A perfect imperfection.

The air was getting thinner and sweeter. I close my eyes and wait, trying to think of being in the cockpit again. Try not to…

Diana wriggled backward against me again as she heard footsteps and I cannot withhold a grunt. She grabbed hold of my wrist to quiet me, but she didn’t realize that this space was slowly but surely becoming REALLY confining. We were pressed together like jam and peanut butter.

“Shh, Steve,” she hissed. “Someone’s making rounds again. I think they’re on to us.”

I wanted to listen to the voices of the Germans. Perhaps get a better idea of IF they were indeed suspicious of our presence. But how could I with her shoulder pressing into my chin and her back against…

“Hold on, Diana,” I whispered, desperate to keep my blood flow going in the normal directions. But it was draining from my head downwards, especially as she shifted against me again as another soldier's boots passed her line of sight out of the space.

My face felt warm, despite the chilly air of late autumn. I forced myself to turn my head upwards to face the dirt covered top. My heart beat fast and rapidly, and I only somewhat sure that’s from the fear of being caught. My lower part of my body was telling me otherwise.

I was beginning to feel sick. No, of all the times to just...be a gross lout of a man in front of this angel, this is the least idealistic place. Not to mention unexpected. I hoped and prayed she wouldn’t notice that I was compromised. But as it was getting harder and harder to ignore that her body so close to mine was having an effect on me, the more I feared she would realize the source of my discomfort.

I kept on telling myself that I was a soldier, so was she. It should be no different if it was some other nameless male soldier.

Except that it wasn’t. Diana and I had fought side by side since she first stepped into this hell hole. And I can’t deny even if I tried that she was a beauty and sight to behold. And I did care for her. That said, I could’ve sworn I hadn’t had such lurid thoughts or physical reactions to her presence before.

I took this opportunity to ponder. At the very least get my mind off my “problem” that was continuing to fight for my attention. Maybe the Amazons were right. Maybe there was something to man that made them so inferior, so base. If I couldn’t control myself during a situation that could leave us dead in a matter of minutes, what does that say? Or maybe it isn’t man that’s the problem.

Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I am so weak to keep my neanderthal-like brain from going directly into the gutter. And in actually was a prime example of what the Amazons wanted to run away from.

My problem continued to pulse against my thigh. She didn’t say a word. The pairs of boots moved out of our line of sight and she scrambled and shifted to get out of the corner we were in, and in doing so, inadvertently grinding against me.

“Diana, wait, stop,” I groaned as she shifted. “Diana”

She turned back, realizing she was feeling something odd against the small of her back and whispered, “What was that?”

To my horror, her eyes were on my groin, and I really wanted to vomit right then and there. Her eyes lifted to meet mine, asking for an explanation.

I swallowed my shame and self-hate and could barely meet her gaze.

Before I realized I was speaking I whispered, “It’s...nothing.”

Diana did not look at all satisfied with that answer. I wiped sweat from my face, realizing that I had tears down my cheeks. I had never been this embarrassed in my life. Not even when I was a youngster growing awkwardly into manhood. My family, though kind people, were raised fairly conservative and such things were not discussed in the household, especially in a household where my father and I were outnumbered by my mother and three sisters. So my shame when I saw my mother’s face as she hand-washed my sticky sheets was insurmountable. That embarrassment would never be topped. Until now.

“Doesn’t feel like nothing, Steve,” Diana said in a low emotionless tone, her gaze still on me.

Suddenly I was sweating from every pore of my body. I apologized profusely, almost ready to shout my confession to the world. “It’s just the friction, Princess.”

I almost rather she hit me. Take me out of my misery and shame. Her unreadable expression was almost too much to bear, and yet still, the betrayer of my body was insistent on keeping up appearances.

She paused and glanced over her shoulder outside to make sure no Hun was roaming around again, before facing me head on. “Is friction really the problem?”

Diana sounded skeptical, even when pressing the matter. I let out a soft sigh that nearly came out as a sob.

“It really doesn’t matter, Angel. I rather not discuss it. Especially now of all times,” I realized my own hypocrisy. “Just know that I apologize. I do not mean to be...unprofessional about this.”

“If we switch positions, would that make you feel better?” her voice sounded oddly understanding. “But you’d be in the line of fire, and I can take a bullet and have a better chance of surviving.”

“And I don’t know if we can,” I replied, shifting a bit to hide my unwanted arousal. “We can barely move as it is, and if we try to shimmy ourselves around each other it could cause a stir...erm stir with our enemies that is.”

She gave me a sardonic look. Like she was only vaguely amused that I could actually use my head. Well with all the blood flowing elsewhere, I can understand her surprise. How I ever managed to find words to say will be a mystery.

“Do you think you can keep composure until we escape?” she asked. It wasn’t patronizing. She sounded like she was asking a very real question.

I took a deep shuddering breath, feeling a strong sense of resolution overcome me. A feeling I often get when I am overwhelmed with a desire not to fail her. Something I hope I never end up doing.

“I can, Princess.”

Her lips smiled a little, “Good. Then we can--and will--discuss this later.”

My heart sank a bit as she turned her focus back to the opening. I would rather just leave it behind and pretend it never happened. Maybe, just maybe she will forget. And however and whatever we did to get out of this mess, would take priority of her mind if we returned to our allies.

Because I don’t think I can speak about this without looking and seeming like a fool.

We hunkered down once more and my problem went away, mercifully. We whispered and discussed what was to happen as it was apparent that soldiers were ordered to be in their stations for rest during the night.

Soon nightfall came and all we could see was the darkness ahead. I had dozed off a bit, despite being uncomfortable and having stiff limbs. I stirred when Diana snuck forward. She glanced left, then right out of the hole.

“We’re clear here,” she whispered and motioned for me to follow her. I scrambled out of my position, feeling my joints crack and creak from underuse. I struggle to get my bearings a bit but I followed her as she kept a watchful eye on the surroundings.

She jumped down into the trench making as little noise as possible. I followed suit, making a squelching sound in the mud. I crawled on my belly towards the high mud and wood walls of the trench. Diana grabbed me by the collar and hoisted me up flush against the wall.

Before she sprang ahead, I held her back, “Hold on. Let me go up first. Allied snipers remember. Can’t have you getting shot.”

“Does it matter?” she whispered. I nodded.

Pursing her lips, she knelt down and cupped her hands together, ready to hoist me up first.

“Hurry,” she warned, “I think they’re coming around.”

I braced myself on her shoulders and stepped into her hands as she hoisted me over the wall. I kept myself low to the ground and reached down for her to grab my arm. The footsteps and voices drew closer and I saw the leg of a soldier before I hoisted Diana up as fast as I could.

She scrambled up and out of the sight of the patrolling Germans. We froze, bellies to the barren ground as the Germans stopped right in front of us below our noses. She wrapped a strong arm around me, trying to make us look as small as possible.

One of the Germans sniffed. The other paused to take out a cigarette. The sniffing German scolded the other and the cigarette was back in the German’s breast pocket and walked away. I tried not let out a heaving sigh.

“Okay…” Diana whispered, “Slowly...on your stomach...turn.”

I obeyed, trying to be as silent as I could.

On our stomachs, knees, and forearms, we crawled through No Man’s land. It was tiring, grueling, I got blisters and scrapes on my forearms and knees, and crawling in the darkness was a fight against my wits.

I wanted to speak, to pass the time, but I didn’t know how far we were from either side. I supposed we would’ve kept crawling until something stopped us.

No Man’s land this time was long. And crawling on our bellies like overstuffed lizards did not make our journey quick. When we reached broken wooden pylons of a neglected attempt to build a trench we knew we were close, but dawn was fast approaching, the overcast sky getting lighter and lighter gray.

I could hear the hushed and gasping voices of our allies. There was unrest. Perhaps they could sense us.

“We’ve been discovered,” Diana whispered. “Slowly, follow my lead.”

I watched as her silhouetted figure rose to her knees, hands up above her head. Almost instinctively I shouted, tackling her to the ground before a shot rang out.

I felt the bullet whiz above my head and fear kept me still. Diana moved me, rolling me off of her as she yelled, “Don’t shoot! We’re on your side!”

“Do not move an inch!” one of the soldiers shouted, his rifle pointed directly at us.

She miraculously obeyed.

“State your names!”

“Princess Diana!” she called. “Your Wonder Woman. I have Captain Steve Trevor with me.”

The soldiers hesitated, trying to get a better look at us as they drew closer.

“Soldier! Stand down,” the commanding officer shouted. “This is them. Or were you unaware of their bravery in covering our retreat?”

“N-no, sire, I didn’t mean--”

“And you would shoot the Wonder Woman?”

“Please Sergeant,” Diana said, helping me to my knees as we scuttled our way into the trench, free from snipers. “He was only doing his duty.”

The sergeant’s mustache twitched in response and the young soldier looked relieved that Diana came to his rescue. “Very well. The private will lead you both to the back of the barracks for some warm blankets. You must be chilled to the bone.”

I had nearly forgotten about the incident in the hiding hole. I was too exhausted from my escape to really analyze it. I hunkered down near the back end of the trench, wrapped in a blanket to keep me warm.

Diana had approached me, bearing a canteen. She looked down upon me and held it out.

“Here,” she said. “You must be thirsty.”

I thanked her and accepted the water, unconsciously wrapping the blanket tighter around me as she sat down next to me.

“Soo…” she began, “Is there something we should talk about?”

It wasn’t a question. It was purposefully presented that way so that she wouldn’t seem intrusive. As if I had any real choice. She was close, leaning towards me, engaged. And I had to look away.

“I rather not talk about it, Diana,” I said, voice coming out weak. “It was embarrassing, crude and inappropriate. And I apologize.”

“Does it happen often?”

I still did not dare look at her. I didn’t know what else to say. A part of me wanted to shout and the other wanted to dig myself a grave to keep quiet. She then placed a hand on the small of my back and I shuddered.

“No...I don’t know. A lot of things cause that...sort...of reaction in men. I don’t know why I became as compromised as I did, but it’s no excuse. A stronger man would’ve suppressed it. No, it wouldn’t have happened to a stronger man,” I took a giant swig of the canteen, my throat suddenly dry.

She made no reaction again, but when she spoke, she spoke calmly, “It all depends on your definition of a strong man. I never really told you the full story of my mother’s tryst with Zeus. Zeus, the most powerful and strong of the gods, couldn’t resist when something like that arose within him. Would you consider him strong?”

I shook my head. I don’t know why. I had no affiliation with Zeus and I am probably insulting Diana. The god was her father after all...sort of.

“Maybe it’s the way I was raised, Princess. Self-restraint is a big staple of our society. Religion plays a big part of it too,” I handed her the canteen and looked back at her. “Those who are true to faith cast away sin and desire and temptation.”

I ran a hand through my hair. I constantly told myself I am rather faithless. And yet here I use it as an example like a hypocrite, “But...I don’t follow any religion closely, despite how I was raised.”

She gave a dry huff of laughter, “And yet you call me ‘angel’. You participate in pre-battle prayers. You recite hymns when you’re distressed. You sound pretty faithful to me.”

“Even if that was the case…” Which it wasn’t. She hadn’t heard a number of times I cursed the saints and the holy trinity during my time in war. “That just makes my behavior more deplorable than it already is.”

“Let me ask you something. Is submitting to love and normal bodily desires a greater sin here on man’s world than starting wars and killing each other?”

“N-no,” I clearly did not sound convinced. “Wanted desires in the right circumstance is acceptable here. But committing unwanted advances should never be considered anything other than a sin.”

She cocked her head in agreement. “Yes of course. But you didn’t act on what your body wanted. Does your heart control you? Your brain? What controls your actions, Steve?”

What my body wanted. Good Lord. Why did she say it that way? I’m not sure if the fact that she had a countenance of a doctor or physician made it better or worse.

“Still no excuse,” I reiterated. I ran my hands down the back of my neck, trying to gather myself in front of her. I struggled with questioning myself. If my body acted that way then did a part of me want to see her in THAT way? Even if I did, I was pretty sure she didn’t want to reciprocate. Did she? No...that couldn’t be true.

“You’ve told me stories of what your people endured,” I continued. “We both have seen and heard stories of men doing despicable things based on what their body wanted. I do not want to turn into one of them and can not be like them. So no matter what my body did, wanted or unwanted, I can’t excuse myself for it.”

“Perhaps you’re right that you shouldn’t be excused. Perhaps not, but if we’re working together we have to be comfortable with each other. ‘Unwanted’ bodily reactions aside. I don’t want to put you in another situation in which you feel compromised or shame. More than anything I need you with a clear head and heart.”

I took a deep shuddering breath, not realizing that emotion was tightening in my chest. She patted the top of my head roughly, tousling a bit of the longer hairs on the top my head as she did so. “And no more self-hatred. You should never be ashamed to be a man, just as I shouldn’t be ashamed of being a woman. Self-hatred just breeds more hate and anger towards others, Steven. Do not succumb to it.”

I hung my head at hearing my full given name and could only whisper, “Yes, Princess.”

“Good,” she replied taking a swig from the canteen. “So...do you think you can continue to work with me?”

“Yes,” I said without a thought.

“Then, that’s all there is,” she replied softly with a smile on her face. “Get some rest. Who knows what will happen tomorrow.”

I watch her move over to the other side of the encampment, engaging with other men who wear their relief at seeing her on their haggard faces. I see her use her smile to draw out theirs.

And suddenly as it always had, this war doesn’t feel nearly as awful as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the final chapter of these shorts. Just in time for the film. It was a good ride unpacking these three in the context of World War 1. Hope you all have enjoyed the journey as well.


End file.
